


they shall not grow old

by aceskywalker



Series: the bane chronicles [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: 1917 adjacent, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22420975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceskywalker/pseuds/aceskywalker
Summary: inspired by the film 1917. entirely fictional -- please know that nothing this specific would happen.Magnus’ greatest fear was to lose his best friend. Over the years, Ragnor had grown increasingly thoughtless towards his own life, behaving more and more recklessly. Now in the midst of a world at war, buried deep in the blood and guts of God’s Country, Magnus couldn’t shake the feeling that following one of these skirmishes, he’d be fist deep in Ragnor’s abdomen attempting to get his heart to return to a normal rhythm. Every single time a bombardment of artillery shook the cobblestone flooring of the shabby hospital wing (once a Church in the French countryside, now it was mangled and splattered with blood that would never fade), Magnus prayed to whatever God could be listening that Ragnor not be brought into the hospital wing moments later.
Relationships: Magnus Bane & Ragnor Fell
Series: the bane chronicles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1613527
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	they shall not grow old

1917 - WESTERN FRANCE

It had been a long and brutal three years. Magnus had lived enough years for three lifetimes, and had met young men who deserved those infinite years more than he ever would. Three wars in those lifetimes and nothing had changed. The powers that be fought what was different, hated that which they couldn’t induct or exploit. Wars were often meaningless, championed by the rich that didn’t have to be on the frontlines, fought by the simple man who couldn’t buy out their draft or couldn’t afford to subsist on their own. The poor always suffered, no matter which route they took, and that was the failure of the governing powers. 

Despite the fact that Magnus had taken the less violent route this time around, this Great War was devastating even to him. A doctor on the front, Magnus was a part of the Royal Army Medical Corps, a major within a regiment that ran a field hospital. Their hospital followed the movements of Ragnor’s regiment, a Rifleman Corps. Ragnor seemed careless about throwing himself haplessly into war, while Magnus was too trepidatious now to approach with such violent action. It would take great importance, at least personally, for him to fight in a war for at least a decade or so, he was still so haunted by what had happened just shy of fifty years ago when the United States of America had nearly split in two. 

Magnus’ greatest fear was to lose his best friend. Over the years, Ragnor had grown increasingly thoughtless towards his own life, behaving more and more recklessly. Now in the midst of a world at war, buried deep in the blood and guts of God’s Country, Magnus couldn’t shake the feeling that following one of these skirmishes, he’d be fist deep in Ragnor’s abdomen attempting to get his heart to return to a normal rhythm. Every single time a bombardment of artillery shook the cobblestone flooring of the shabby hospital wing (once a Church in the French countryside, now it was mangled and splattered with blood that would never fade), Magnus prayed to whatever God could be listening that Ragnor not be brought into the hospital wing moments later. 

It was near nightfall and Magnus was sanitizing his surgery tools when a private burst into the room, face blanching at the sight of vomit and blood and bits and pieces of people that should never be seen outside the human body. Lips pursed, Magnus took a moment to regret that he hadn’t finished sanitizing the whole room before he turned and greeted his guest. “Private. How can I help you?” 

“Major Magnus Bane?” 

“Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?” 

“Your brother is Lance Corporal Ragnor Fell, correct?” 

Magnus’ heart stopped at the mention of his best friend. Had he died? Would this be the moment Magnus had been dreading for a century now? “Yes, that is correct.” He tried to keep his voice from shaking, but he was sure by the pitiful look from the Private that he failed. 

“The General wants to speak with you. Urgently.” 

Magnus swallowed hard and nodded, pulling his smock from his form to place it on the blood slick operating table to follow the Private from the Church to the command tent. Magnus kept his gaze lowered and diverted from the people around him--moans and screams of soldiers and occasional civilians in severe pain were something that he heard every day, but it was something that you never got used to. Brushing his still wet fingertips against the fabric of his pants, Magnus bowed his head so he wouldn’t smack into the entrance of the tent. Assuming a polite position beside the private, Magnus saluted the General and attempted to keep the fear and pallar from his features. 

“Ah, Major Magnus Bane of RAMC. This is strictly confidential so I’m sure we can keep this between ourselves.” 

“Yes, Sir. Of course.” 

“I’ve been told by command that Lance Corporal Ragnor Fell is trapped in the city of Camiers with his men surrounded by German forces. He was told by his commanding officer to hold down the city, as it is a place of importance, but these men are in danger. We know that you do not have battle experience, but we have word that Ragnor is refusing to give up his post if it has not been ordered by the commanding officer, who has unfortunately perished, or his brother, who we have been informed is yourself. Now, this small band of men is all that is left of what was stationed there, and we do not believe they will survive for another day if they are not rescued and relieved by forces that can retake the city. We need you to get in and either escort Lance Corporal Fell and his men from the premises or if you can hold the city until we can send relief in the morning. Either way, Fell needs to be made aware of the circumstances and hopefully, we can save these men and the lives of others in the process. Do you understand the task that is being requested of you, Major Bane?” 

“I--I--yes, Sir, but how am I supposed to accomplish this on my own? As you have stated, I have no battlefield experience.” As far as the British Army was aware, at least. 

“Ah, yes, as for that,” General Drummond moved to the other side of the table, pushing two men forward. “This is Lance Corporal Toby Burke and Private Alexandre Silvestre. They will accompany you on this mission and aid you in your task.” Burke was practically a boy, maybe a day over twenty-one, sharp hazel eyes snapping from one face to another. Silvestre was tall and definitely younger, eighteen? Nineteen? Drummond’s plan was to send Magnus with children to face an army. Magnus mentally cursed his stupid friend and nodded in understanding. “You are to leave momentarily, after given provisions by Captain Laurence. I hope for your success and pray for your survival. Good luck, Major Bane.” 

That was that, apparently, as the General turned and resumed his conversation with the other men around the table, leaving Magnus with the other two men and Captain Laurence, who approached with a few knapsacks in hand and a rifle. “These knapsacks contain necessary equipment, such as a torch, food, binoculars, maps and other things you might need. This rifle is for you, Major, in case you are attacked by German forces. We know you had some form of basic training in order to become a field medic, but if need be, Lance Corporal Burke and Private Silvestre can assist you in the use of it.” Laurence handed each of the three men a knapsack and Magnus the rifle before he, too, turned toward the circle again. 

Heaving a heavy sigh, Magnus gestured to Burke and Silvestre, hiking both the knapsack and rifle onto his shoulders. “Camiers is due west of here, so we should head that way,” he stated, gesturing toward the treeline past the casualty clearing station. “It should only take us five hours or so, given we not be interrupted by our German friends.” Silvestre just nodded and started off in that direction, long legs already creating a vast distance between them, while Burke waited until Magnus started walking, keeping pace with the Major. 

“Sorry about Silvestre, he’s just quiet.” 

“As long as he’s smart enough to not get us killed, I think he’ll do just fine.” 

Three hours into their journey and daylight was gone. Aided by their flashlights, the men navigated through the French countryside. While this was beneficial in the cause of being hidden from sight, it did not aid navigation, which was already murky as the trio trudged through the thick mud ridden path. Magnus’ medical issued uniform was coated with the smelly brown mush and it took a lot of willpower not to gag, as, after all, hadn’t he been coated in worse before? The blood and guts of human beings who were suffering and dying? Somehow Silvestre kept up his quick pace as Burke and Magnus fell behind, struggling to not slip. “At this rate, it’ll take three more hours just to get to Camiers.” 

“Hopefully not, but this is quite dreadful. Do you suppose that the German forces muddied the path to make it worse for Allied reinforcements?” 

“I wouldn’t put it past them. Let’s just make sure Silvestre doesn’t stray too far ahead. Silvestre!” 

Silvestre turned on his heel and securely stuck himself in the muck, twisting hard with his hip to free his foot. He was swearing, in French, Magnus thought, but the sound of a gunshot startled them all. Burke fell flat to the ground while Magnus ducked and attempted to trudge his way toward Silvestre, who was struggling with abandon, now. “Silvestre, you have to duck!” 

Silvestre was panicking, and Magnus could already see where this was going. Although whoever was shooting at them was missing now, they wouldn’t be for long, especially with Silvestre being a nonmoving target. He’d be easy pickings. Mud was swallowing Magnus whole as he forced his way toward his comrade, grunting with effort as he tugged his feet from the mud and tackled Silvestre to the ground, slamming them full-bodied into the sunken, sopping earth. Magnus rolled off of Silvestre, groaning as he started to crawl toward nearby cover. “We have to move forward. Crawl!”

Magnus had been in plenty of similar situations. War was never pretty, and no matter how far you were away from the actual fight, you could still get caught in dangerous skirmishes. He cast a glance behind him to make sure that Burke was following before he continued to crawl, hands shaking more and more as bullets flew by their heads. Magnus tried to keep himself from having a full-blown panic attack as memories flooded his vision, swallowing down the fear, he continued to crawl until he was in front of a ramshackle barn. Leaning against the fading wood, he gestured for the others to hurry before he turned to peer through the night. Swearing as he dodged a flurry of bullets, Magnus pulled his rifle from his shoulder, shoving a magazine inside before he took off the safety and aimed, sight on a man perched on a cobblestone roof. Firing was harder than Magnus remembered with his hands shaking so violently, but he managed to land a headshot after a few wasted efforts. Stomach rolling, he knew it had always been a lot easier to patch up what the bullets had caused then to be the cause himself. Hurting people had never been something he’d enjoyed to do, even if they did bad things. Alas, war was war. Magnus didn’t have a choice if he wanted to keep those in his charge safe. 

“Major!” Burke’s voice snapped Magnus out of his trance and he finally turned from the sickly sight to another--Silvestre was still on the ground, head in Burke’s lap, blood gushing from his side. It was clear that Silvestre had been struck by a bullet and that it had punctured his intestine, at the least. More than likely, it had done far worse. Hiking his rifle upon his shoulder again, Magnus clambered toward the duo, falling to his knees beside the Private. Alexandre was panting in fear, palms slick with blood as he attempted to hold it back inside. “Hey, hey, Silvestre, it’s okay.” Burke was calmer than Magnus had seen most be, which lead him to believe that he had experience with this. 

“Silvestre, I’m so sorry.” Magnus murmured, ripping a part of his own sleeve off to stuff into the gaping hole in Silvestre’s torso. 

Silvestre grabbed Magnus’ wrist, wild eyes staring into the warlock’s own. “ _ Vous devez... Tu dois donner ça à ma mère. Tu vas le faire, n'est-ce pas _ ?” (You have to...you have to give this to my mother. You will, won’t you?) One bloodied hand reached for his neck, tugging a locket free. Silvestre opened Magnus’ hand and shoved the locket into it, wrapping his stiff fingers around the cool metal. “ _ S'll vous plaît, Major. Dis à ma mère que je l'aimais. _ ” (Please, Major. Tell my mother I loved her.) Silvestre’s face was pale, and the strength of his grip on Magnus’ hand loosened. “ _ Promets-moi _ !” (Promise me!) 

“ _ Je te le promets. Je trouverai ta mère. _ ” (I promise you. I will find your mother.) Magnus vowed, squeezing Silvestre’s hand in his own. The Private let out a small sigh, offering Magnus a smile of gratitude. Then, all life drained from his features, and his hand fell from Magnus’ grip, chest stilling as blood continued to stain Burke’s pants. Magnus started at Silvestre’s prone form for a long moment, tears burning at the edges of his eyes. Standing to his feet in the wet grass, Magnus crouched and plucked up the much bigger man into his arms, struggling, but he managed to carry Silvestre to the barn, where he rested him up against the fence. Tugging his tag free, Magnus brushes soft fingertips against Silvestre’s eyelids to hide cold eyes from the waking world and tucked his eerily still warm hands against his middle. Sighing, Magnus stared at Private Silvestre’s corpse for a moment before he moved to help Burke up and started off in the direction of Camiers. 

Eyes straight ahead, Magnus attempted to focus on the task at hand. They were close enough to Camiers, that much was clear with the attack that had just occurred. The man that Magnus had killed must have been a sentry, and others would be sent after him if he didn’t return in a certain amount of time. They had to be sneaky about this if they were to survive. At least they had the cover of night. 

He should’ve used magic to save Silvestre. Magnus was so used to hiding his powers that he’d forgotten he’d even had them, and thus, a man died when he didn’t have to. Magnus let Silvestre die. Magnus had failed another brother in arms, and the wound would be fresh until he himself fell to hell. 

Looking forward to the future, Magnus had been so focused on the mission, on what he’d done wrong, that he hadn’t noticed Burke matching his pace, nor the fact that his helmet had slipped a bit from his head exposing...well, Magnus had known that other Downworlders were fighting for mundanes instead of hiding in the underground, but it was strange that he was paired with one on accident. Gaze falling to Burke’s pointed ears, Magnus arched a brow. “So...you’re a Seelie. And here I was thinking I was the only Downworlder around here.” 

Burke startled, cheeks flushing as he looked at Magnus. “What? Are you a Seelie, too?” 

“Afraid not. I’m a warlock. And a fucking stupid one at that.” 

“If you’re a warlock...why didn’t you save Silvestre?” 

Magnus sighed, vision swirling with tears. He was always too emotional when a situation didn’t suit it. “To be honest? I forgot I even could. I’m so used to hiding it. I haven't used it since before the war started.” Working so closely with mundanes, fighting to save their lives in their own manner, in a way, it humbled the warlock. He was still using his hands, so it wasn’t too different, and it made him feel...more human. More normal. Less like what his father wanted him to be. 

“So, this brother of yours. Is he an actual brother? Is he a warlock like you?” 

“He is a warlock, yes, and although we do not share the same blood, we are brothers. I’ve known him for nearly three centuries, almost as long as I’ve been alive. He saved my life many years ago. It’s time to return the favor.” 

Burke was silent for a moment as footfalls carried them from the body of a comrade toward an uncertain future. “I’m not even a century old. Has the world always been like this?” 

“People always find something to fight about, but this is the first war of its kind. This time I fear the world will be engulfed in flames if it doesn’t stop soon. I’ve never seen such visceral hatred, such brutal murder, not even when the United States was at war with itself. Mundanes can be so unkind, and they’re not even that different from one another.” 

The duo traveled in silence until they began to approach Camiers, Magnus’ torch helpfully highlighting the sign announcing the town. Pressing his fingertip to his lips, Magnus turned off the torch and gestured for Burke to follow him through the darkness. Debris and detritus crunched beneath their feet despite how hard they attempted to be quiet. Magnus could hear the crackling of a fire in the distance, and laughter. Loud, raucous German voices. Magnus knew no side took joy in war, but it always seemed to him that whatever side he was fighting against was enjoying what they were doing. Perhaps that was just his warped perception due to brainwashing, perhaps it was actually fact. Either way, this unit of troops were having a blast, and he was certain that ill-gotten liquor had something to do with it. 

“Is it true that warlocks cannot portal to somewhere they haven’t been?” Burke asked quietly. 

“Unfortunately. I invented the portal, but I still can’t figure out a way to transport myself to somewhere I haven’t been to. It’s so awfully inconvenient. We could use that right now.” 

“Wait...you invented the portal?” 

Magnus couldn’t hold back the small laugh bubbling in his chest, “Yes, I did. Well, with Henry Branwell’s help.” 

“If you’re so brilliant, why are you here?” Burke could think of a million things Magnus could be doing aside from fighting a mundane war. 

“Sometimes it is better to help one’s fellow man than to abandon them in their time of need. You’d be surprised how many immortal Downworlders choose to abdicate their place of residence at times of war just so they don’t have to be involved. I think it’s sad and rather selfish. Even if you’d prefer not to fight, you can still help in a less violent way. I’m always so disappointed in my species.” 

“Hey, you’re preaching to the choir. How many Seelies have you seen fight for something other than themselves?” 

That was beyond true. Magnus knew that time made you jaded, but to know that so many of their kind would abandon others in their time of need when perhaps they could be the only ones to help? It was just sad. Pathetic. 

Ducking behind an abandoned and crumbling house, Magnus pulled Burke beside him. “See that church in the center of town? I’m sure that’s where we have to go. Ragnor is smart enough to pick a central location, even if it’s rather obvious. That’s their place of last stand. We just have to figure out a way to quietly get there.” 

“We could just avoid the main road...go in between houses and in corridors. I doubt that soldiers are posted on every route in the town.” 

Magnus hummed in thought before nodding in agreement, “Alright, but we must be nearly silent. Even if they aren’t everywhere, there must still be soldiers on guard.” 

Quiet as a mouse, the duo made their way through the town, carefully avoiding buildings and areas where the crackling of fire could be heard. There were quite a few such places, which made sense given the gravity of the situation. The General had said that he knew that Ragnor wouldn’t last until the following day if his men were alone, and that must be because of the sheer number of soldiers waiting outside their stronghold. They would attack at first light, Magnus was certain. 

Burke and Magnus successfully made it to the Church without detection--the only issue now is how they were to enter without being seen by the soldiers outside, nor shot by Ragnor’s unit inside. Knocking gently on the door, Magnus used the softest tone possible as he spoke. “I am Major Magnus Bane, accompanied by Lance Corporal Toby Burke and we are here to relieve Lance Corporal Ragnor Fell and his men.” Pressing his ear to the door, Magnus heard a bit of a scuffle before the voice of his brother thundered through the hallowed walls of the church. 

“Let them through, Private. Lest you want to die sooner rather than later.” A moment later, Magnus and Burke were being ushered inside before the door was firmly closed, locked and barricaded behind them. A crackling fire sat in the middle of the room, and by the looks of it, it was comprised of pews ripped from the ground and torn up. Magnus had never been particularly religious when he had been Christian for a brief moment (gotta love the Dutch settlers forcing their religion onto Indonesian slaves), but even he could see how that felt wrong. Never mind the literal crucifix resting in the pile of firewood, the expression on Jesus’ face so sorrowful that it even made Magnus want to cry. 

Finally, after months, Magnus’ gaze fell upon his brother and the sheer notion brought him to tears. “Ragnor!” He exclaimed, dropping his pack and rifle and practically running to pull him into his arms. Ragnor was, at first, quite receptive to the embrace, his soot-covered face shoved into the warmth of Magnus’ neck, but all too soon, Ragnor stiffened and pulled away, blood-shot and dried eyes taking in Magnus’ form. 

“You shouldn’t have come, Bane.” Ragnor states, monotone and lifeless. 

“What do you mean, brother? If I wasn’t ordered to by the General, I would’ve come regardless. I wouldn’t leave you out here to die. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.” Magnus didn’t understand where this was coming from, and Ragnor’s lack of inflection ran a shiver down his spine. The two had been nearly inseparable for centuries, and he’d never heard Ragnor speak like this. 

“I mean what I said. You shouldn’t have come. We are all going to die, and it will be meaningless as we are but bodies in the machine of war. And it’s not as though this war will ever end, Bane, you know this. How many wars have we fought in?” Ragnor’s tone is desperate now, and he is shouting, loud enough to draw attention from nearby enemy encampments. Magnus can’t bear to look at him, but he also can’t bear to look away. This is the one person he loves most in the world, and he seems to be absolutely losing it. “How many people have we watched die for a cause greater than themselves and only have the stakes raised higher? As the world develops, as time goes on, there will just be more war, more death until we are all destroyed in totality because we cannot overcome our differences. I can’t bear it anymore, Magnus! I cannot bear to see another man’s limb blown from him, to see another mother lose her only child, I cannot bear to watch the world crumble in my hands for one more day, knowing that I am just a speck in the grand scheme of things. We are nothing but servants to an unceasing God that is desperate for blood, that hungers for our loss and devours our souls when we fall to a fruitless cause. We are nothing, Magnus Bane, and I cannot be nothing for a moment longer! So leave! Let me die, Bane, let me go! I cannot take another minute of this monotony!” 

Tears sting Magnus’ eyes as a sob escaped him, he reaches for Ragnor to no avail--he stays out of reach, and he does so very intentionally. The men that surrounded them are uncomfortably silent, and Magnus is trying so damn hard not to openly weep in front of complete strangers. “You are not nothing, Ragnor, your life means something. Just because something is broken does not mean it cannot be fixed. The world won’t always be like this, and I know it. Please, Ragnor. There’s no point in dying when you can live. These men are depending on you!” 

“Their deaths will mean nothing. too! We will all die, and it will all be for nothing. It is inevitable, Bane, and you know it! Time stops for no one. The world will move on without us until it burns itself to nothing. I have accepted it, Magnus, and so must you. Leave! Take these men with you if you must. I cannot go.” 

Magnus couldn’t see through his tears, his vision was so blurred, but he could hear the potshots as they started, bullets flying into the wood paneling of the Church. Glass windows began to shatter, even through the barricades, and men flew to the ground, on instinct, burying their heads in their hands, shouting. Magnus shoved Ragnor to the ground, turning to make sure Burke was leveled, too. He couldn’t live with it if another man died in his care. He supposed that it was so close to the morning that the Germans decided, with the noise, the distraction, that now was their time to attack. 

Men were shouting as they slammed against the outside of the doors, and Magnus knew it was only a matter of time before the barricades broke under their wake. He stood, despite Burke’s shouts to do otherwise and dashed toward the door, hoping to magically hold it in place long enough for the fire to cease, but as soon as he took a precious few steps, the doors burst open and the German forces entered the Church. There were no other options, Magnus didn’t know what to do. He was weaponless, facing the enemy, at the end of multiple muskets. 

Magnus wasn’t even aware it was happening, but as he let out an almost inhuman shout, a wave of dark red magic projected from his body and pushed toward the oncoming enemies. They fell like dominoes, crashing into each other before they tumbled to the ground in a mess of limbs and blood. Magnus collapsed on his knees, panting desperately, chest heaving. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he was so lost in his own desperation that he hadn’t noticed that his magic had taken out every single last enemy, and had destroyed a good portion of the Church too, leaving them exposed, however, safer than they had been. 

Magnus had done his duty, he had protected his fellow soldiers, had saved Ragnor and kept the city secure. In one fell swoop, Magnus had killed the enemy. Shaking, Magnus’ head slowly descended to the ground, painful sobs wracking his body. A hand fell upon his shoulder, but he couldn’t bear to lift himself up. War took a toll on everyone, and Magnus was forced to live through it cyclically. War was his punishment. 

  
  


A year later, Magnus had returned to France after the Treaty of Versailles was signed, officially ending the Great War. This time, however, he was in Lyons, having located Alexandre Silvestre’s mother, Clara Silvestre, and her young daughter Emma, who couldn’t be older than six or seven. He’d sent a letter after he’d returned from Camiers. Once he’d found out Silvestre’s mother’s name and her place of residence. He told her what had happened to her son, and asked if he could visit her when the war was done. Despite her grief, Clara agreed and prayed for his safe return from the front, as well as a swift end to the war. 

Now, standing in front of Clara Silvestre, Magnus couldn’t shake the feeling that he was the reason that her son was dead, but Clara had selflessly offered him food, drink, and many embraces that he knew that he didn’t deserve. Still, he smiled as she spoke about Alexandre, remarking how wonderful he had been as a child, especially when his father died and he stepped up to take his place, to earn for his family. Apparently he’d sent all his pay home to them in his letters. 

“ _ J'ai quelque chose pour toi, ma chère.”  _ (I have something for you, my dear.) Holding out her palm, Magnus coiled the cool metal of Silvestre’s locket against Clara’s warm skin, as well as his dog tag. He watched her eyes water, and his heart ached impossibly to know that he could have stopped this, but it was his failure that lead to this mother losing her child. Perhaps Alexandre could’ve died at another point during the war, but Magnus knew that he had wasted a chance to save him. Magnus had all the power in the world but was powerless to use it when he needed to most. 

Clara lifted her gaze to Magnus’, and he fought hard to keep his steady, then pulled him into an embrace. “ _ Je vous remercie. Pour m'avoir amené mon fils. _ ” (Thank you. For bringing my son back to me.) Magnus’ hold on Clara tightened, as tears began to fall from his own eyes. “ _ Désolé. _ ” (I’m sorry.) Magnus failed to save Alexandre Silvestre, but at least succeeded in reminding Clara that her son had loved her, and thought of her only, until the very end. 


End file.
